


The Mother's Gift

by the_moonmoth



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Bodyswap, F/M, Future Fic, Humor, Masturbation, Romantic Comedy, Threats of Rape/Non-Con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-15
Updated: 2013-10-27
Packaged: 2017-12-23 14:21:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/927523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_moonmoth/pseuds/the_moonmoth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>He did not think he could face sitting within talking distance of Jaime Lannister while wearing seed pearls.</i> Sansa and Sandor wake up in each other's bodies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Maracuya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maracuya/gifts).



> Written for the comment fic meme on sansa_sandor.livejournal.com
> 
> Still a WIP (my third I know, argh!) but I needed something more light-hearted to work on. Thanks to **LadyTP** and **Maracuya** for the plot suggestions, and thanks to **OwnsARiver** for the beta.
> 
> This is a comedy and has elements of a parody - I hope it makes you laugh, but if you have suggestions or concrit to offer I'd still love to hear it :)
> 
> ETA 19/5/2014: I have sadly conceded defeat and abandoned this story. Please don't hate me too badly! I may come back to this fandom once the new book is out, but for now my muse has moved on, so no promises. Sorry to disappoint you all, but just wanted to let you know one way or the other (I know it sucks to be left hanging).

**1**  
  
"Seven buggering hells," Sandor swore, his voice coming out all wrong: soft, sweet, and so disconcertingly close-sounding that his head snapped around in guilty reflex to see who was there. It was no one, of course, because somehow, against all natural law, the voice was his.  
  
He gaped at himself in the mirror. He was... he was... teats, hips,  _face_...

Sansa Stark, the bloody Lady of Winterfell, gaped back at him.  
  
His head pounded in time with his heart. Sandor was no stranger to hangovers, but since coming to Winterfell they had been rare. When he'd woken this morning, dragged into consciousness by dry-mouthed queasiness, he'd thought the bed felt bigger than usual. Then a woman had groaned and he had sat bolt upright, only to realise that woman had been  _him_.   
  
Come to think of it, he hadn't drunk that much the night before. What in the seven fiery hells had happened? He remembered arguing with Sansa, he remembered getting angry. He remembered – with a jolt of shame – Sansa crying. Then he had gone to the kitchens for wine before locking himself away to brood in his chambers.  
  
A knock at the door made him start. He realised he didn't fucking know what to do. He couldn't be seen like this! And Sansa... what the hells had happened to _her_? He glanced again at himself in the mirror. He... Sansa... was wearing nothing but a thin bed shift. He swallowed.  
  
Before Sandor could decide what to do the door opened and Jaime Lannister slipped in, looking disgustingly fresh-faced if a little furtive. Suddenly the thought of Sansa being seen dressed like that by a man filled him with horrified indignation. He grabbed quickly for a shawl draped over the end of the bed and fumbled to wrap it around himself. He was painfully aware of how it brought his arms in close contact with his... with  _Sansa_ 's breasts. He shifted uncomfortably, trying to move his arms away from his own chest while not letting the shawl go.  
  
"Damned thing," he muttered, glaring daggers at Jaime as he closed the door behind him.  
  
"Ah," Jaime said, smiling faintly, "so it is you."  
  
Sandor growled. It came out sounding more like a purr. "What. The buggering hells. Do you mean."  
  
*  
  
"It's called the Mother's gift," Jaime explained. "When two people have an irreconcilable difference, it's said that the Mother can cause them to experience the other's point of view, so that they might better understand each other and come to a peace."  
  
"Folklore," Sandor snorted, and flinched immediately at the way the timbre of his voice made the lie of his derision. He tightened his grip on his shawl. "How do you know about this, at any rate?"  
  
Jaime looked disgustingly unperturbed. "Cersei tried to invoke it when we were children," he said easily.  
  
"Did it... work?" Sandor asked, shifting his weight uncomfortably. Pressure was building in his bladder, and that was not something he wanted to deal with ever, but especially not with the Lion of Lannister present.  
  
"No, I never disagreed with her." He paused. "Sansa is..."  
  
"Don't say it," Sandor warned, disgusted to hear a note of pleading in his delicate voice.   
  
"Sansa is in your body," Jaime ploughed on, with a measure of glee that made Sandor's small fist itch. "She sent me over to you. She thinks you should try and go about your respective days as usual. In fact, I think she was planning to head to the practice yard after she had dressed."  
  
"Have you lost your mind?" Sandor asked, incredulous. "She'll kill herself, or someone else."  
  
"Not with a blunted sword," Jaime replied, outright grinning now. "The only thing really at stake is your reputation."  
  
Sandor sat down and put his head in his hands. Auburn hair fell about him like a curtain, for a moment blocking out the world. He had no more words.  
  
"Don't worry, I'll make sure she only spars with me today," Jaime continued, not at all comforting. "I better go before Sansa's maids come in and find me here. Try not to swear at anyone!"  
  
And with that he left Sandor alone to attempt to navigate the chamber pot.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to **OwnsARiver** for the beta.
> 
> Constructive crit is welcome.

**2**  
  
Sansa sat down on the bed and grinned at the empty room. Today had been a very interesting day. To start with, she had woken up with a body rather unlike her own.  
  
*  
  
She'd just assumed she was still drunk, at first. Drunk, or dreaming, or some combination thereof. It wasn't seemly for a woman to get so in her cups at the dinner table, but for the first time in a long time she was not hosting any of her bannermen at Winterfell and in truth there had been no one there to stop her.  
  
And she had been so  _angry_...  
  
So when she first woke, Sansa had merely lain abed looking down at her bare, hairy chest in incomprehension. It was not until she reached up to touch her face that she realised  _who_  exactly she was, a stubbled jaw on one side melting into smooth, sensationless skin on the other.  
  
"Mother have mercy," she breathed, her voice a deep rumble that resonated queerly in her massive chest. A moment later she sat bolt upright and scrambled out of bed, looking frantically for a mirror. Of course, there wasn't one – she was in Sandor's room above the guardhouse. She stood dumbly for a moment, thoughts scattered. What had she done last night? Drunk too much wine, yes. What then? A hazy memory of candles floated to the surface. She had gone to the sept...   
  
"Oh," she said in realisation. "Oh, oh, oh... no..."  
  
All her life, the gods had never once answered her prayers. Surely it couldn't... she glanced down her body again... Well clearly it  _had_. Did that mean Sandor...? The thought made her giddy for a moment. Or perhaps that was the very great height her head now held above the floor.  
  
"I'm a man," she whispered to herself in wonder. Sandor's harsh, rasping voice sounded so strange from inside her own head, especially when spoken so softly. That wouldn't do. She coughed, and cleared her throat. "I'm Sandor Clegane," she said loudly. Yes, that was better. She tried again. "My name is Sandor Clegane, the fearsome Hound," she boomed.  
  
"I should bloody well hope so," said a familiar voice from the doorway, "otherwise that means there's another man out there as ugly as you."  
  
"Jaime!" Sansa said spinning around. Jaime straightened up from his slouch against the door frame and narrowed his eyes at her.  
  
"Something's wrong," he said. Sansa couldn't get over how  _small_  he was, it really was giving her vertigo.  
  
She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, trying to regain her balance. "I wouldn't say  _wrong_  exactly," she said after a moment, "but I do need your help."  
  
*  
  
Jaime had listened in silence as she explained what had happened, and she had begun to fear that he would not believe her when he had said, ever so quietly, "I've heard of this before."  
  
"Well, that's good," Sansa said, brightening, "because I need someone to go across to my chambers and tell Sandor not to offend anyone or ruin my reputation."  
  
"You really think he’s...?"  
  
"It seems likely."  
  
Jaime eyed her carefully. "You don't seem terribly upset," he observed.  
  
Sansa thought about it for a moment. "I am not... happy... about this state of affairs, but it surely cannot be permanent, and besides that I think I will quite enjoy being a man for a while."  
  
"Don't expect Sandor's reaction to be so sanguine," Jaime warned her, but he was starting to grin. Sansa couldn't help but grin back.  
  
"That is because it is much harder being a woman," she replied archly. "As he will soon discover."  
  
*  
  
Dressing had certainly been a far simpler affair than she was used to, and sword fighting with Jaime had been amazingly good fun. They had done it in a quiet corner of course, where no one would see Sandor Clegane swinging his sword wildly about like a child. She couldn't quite get over how very strong she was, able to lift anything it seemed. In her own body, Sansa had once idly attempted to pass Sandor his sword belt, and found herself barely able to lift it. That morning she wore not only the sword belt, but hauberk and light armour as well, and barely felt a thing.  
  
"But you do not normally wear all this just for practice," she observed quietly to Jaime as Sandor's squire went to fetch his helmet.  
  
"The weight of it will make you walk more like a man, and less like a two hundred pound noble lady," Jaime replied.  
  
Of course she had been terrible, but the mere fact of feeling her muscles work, coupled with the forbidden nature of fighting with a sword, had filled her with a strange elation. How wonderful to be outside in the sunshine, getting sweaty, and have not a single care for ruining her dress or her appearance.  
  
After practice, Sansa knew that Sandor usually drilled the men-at-arms of the guard. Her body singing pleasantly from the exercise, she asked Jaime if that was the plan for today. He glanced at her sideways as they made their way back to the armoury.  
  
"I will be more than happy to make your excuses if it please you,” he said.  
  
"No," Sansa replied, flexing and turning her hands back and forth, transfixed by the way the tendons moved, the rough texture of the skin. "I've seen Sandor do it often enough. How hard can it be?"  
  
"As you say, but remember, my lady – don't be too polite."  
  
*  
  
"I had no idea you knew so many colourful ways to mock a man," Jaime commented afterwards, looking a little dazed.  
  
Sansa couldn't help but smile, feeling the way the burned side of her face tugged tightly at her lips. "I have ears," she replied.   
  
"And a surprising lack of qualms," Jaime added, giving her an assessing, almost approving look.  
  
Sansa didn't tell him that the way some of those boys hadn't been able to look at her face had been fuel enough for that fire.  
  
*  
  
In the afternoon they rode out on patrol into the wolfswood. There had been a problem with broken men not so long ago, and the Stark men-at-arms went out regularly to check for signs that they had returned. Sansa almost hoped that they would come across some so that she could give them a menacing look and watch them quake in their boots. She had seen Sandor do it many a time before, and... well... it had never been said of Sansa Stark that she was physically intimidating. She thought she might quite enjoy it, for a change. Still, it was a relief when they returned to Winterfell late in the afternoon, unchallenged.  
  
"I smell quite bad. Who should I call to draw my bath?" Sansa asked cheerfully as they dismounted in the stables. There was something very entertaining about getting Sandor's body sweaty, dust-covered and smelling of horse, like putting salt in Arya’s porridge when they had fought as children, but that did not mean that she wanted to smell her own stink for the rest of the evening.  
  
Jaime laughed. "Your men-at-arms don't generally keep their own bath tubs, I'm afraid."  
  
For one horrified moment, Sansa envisioned having to scrub herself down with cold water and cloth, before she remembered the bath houses. She blushed.  
  
"I can't bathe  _in front_  of people, Jaime," she whispered plaintively.  
  
"Sandor does," Jaime said easily.  
  
Suddenly, Sansa's mind was flooded with imagery. She no longer saw the bailey as they walked across it, but a large, steamy room, full of... of nude men. Her face burned as the blush intensified.  
  
"You know, I don't think I have ever seen Sandor turn that colour," Jaime said thoughtfully. “Maybe in a rage.”  
  
Sansa touched her face self-consciously, feeling the pleasant way her bicep bunched as she did so, wondering if Jaime had often seen Sandor in a rage.  
  
"Oh don't worry," Jaime relented, "it's still early, and the castle's all but empty – no one will be in there at this time of day."  
  
Sansa punched Jaime on the arm for teasing her, deeming it an appropriately masculine response.  
  
Across the bailey, Sansa caught sight of Eda, her maid, as she rushed about on some errand.  _I wonder what Sandor has been doing?_  But she was not quite ready for that confrontation just yet.

*

Sansa had gone back to Sandor's room to search out whatever items he may use for grooming, taking the opportunity to spend some time going through every single one of his drawers, chests and personal items. She knew she was taking liberties, but after the way he'd acted yesterday she really couldn't find it in herself to feel bad about it. She found his soap and shaving kit after a while but, eyeing up the razor blade, decided Sandor could afford to forgo shaving for as long as she was in his body. He had not been able to shave on their journey north from the Eyrie, several years past now, and had looked quite ridiculous with only half a beard. The thought gladdened her, and that was how she came to be sitting on his bed, grinning to herself.

*  
  
Sansa had never visited the bath houses before, despite being the one to commission them. They were for the benefit of the castle folk, making use of the water from the hot springs without the indignity of having to traipse out into the godswood to enjoy them. There were two houses, one for men and one for women. Sansa caught herself at the last moment turning towards the women's bath house and, chuckling wryly to herself with that familiar low rumble, turned into the men's house instead.  
  
Inside, just as Jaime had promised, it was deserted. She stood in a common changing area, with wooden pegs protruding from the wall on which to hang one's clothes, and felt trepidation welling up inside her. This morning had been such a tumble of thoughts and feelings, she had barely even registered Sandor's nakedness as she had dressed his body. Of course she had had to make water throughout the day, which had involved handling Sandor's private parts, but then she had barely dared look, and had touched as little as possible.  
  
Now, she needs must disrobe entirely, and touch herself all over to get clean. Surely even Sandor could not say she had overstepped her bounds by doing such a thing. Why, she would not object at all to his taking a bath in her body. Hygiene was important, after all.  
  
It was only then that it struck her that for such a thing to be possible, Sandor would have to see her naked. Her heart thumped so hard in her chest that she gasped. He would have to see her naked! And she, unlike he, had a large looking glass in her bed chamber. The gods only knew what depraved...  
  
"He wouldn't dare," she said aloud, trying to comfort herself. She was his lady and he would not dare treat her body with the same disregard he treated his whores or kitchen wenches, or whomever it was he satisfied his urges with, even if she was not still in it. He had a strange kind of honour, and she could only hope it would extend to… she could barely think what.

But instead of feeling angry, she realised the thought of him… looking at her… excited her. In her breeches, she felt a stirring of arousal. She had seen men aroused before, of course – felt it thrust against her hip, on a couple of occasions – yet curiosity still overwhelmed her. _I cannot, not if I expect him to leave my body unmolested. I must adhere to my own standards._ The forbidden direction of her thoughts only swelled the bulge beneath her laces. Then she remembered Sandor’s words to her the night before, the way she had stumbled as though he had slapped her.

 _He already thinks so little of me, perhaps I should give him some reason,_ she thought, vitriol flaring. The gods had swapped them in this way for a reason, hadn’t they? Clearly it was for Sandor to learn a lesson or two.

With a rush of adrenaline she refused to call guilt, Sansa fixed her eyes on the wall before her, loosened her breeches and pushed her hand into the front of them.   
  
" _Oh_ ," she groaned, surprise and sharp, hot sensation mingling together. She had never touched a man's erection with her hand before, let alone been on the receiving end. Now she stood with her big hand cupping her manhood and the soft, vulnerable sack below, breathing shakily.  
  
She really wished she had a looking glass.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to go ahead and post this even though it's kind of only been half-beta'd. I might have to come back to make a few small changes, but I know the wait has been going on a while, so. Thanks for your patience, everyone :)
> 
> Comments, constructive crit, giggling - all welcome!

**3**

Sandor paced about Sansa's chambers like the caged lioness he had once seen at Casterly Rock. His day had been nothing short of torture, starting with a bloody corset of all things, and going downhill from there. Now this great copper monstrosity had appeared, full of steaming hot water and temptation, and Sandor eyed it like a foe on the battlefield.  
  
He knew what he'd said to Sansa the night before had been wrong, had regretted it the moment the words had come out of his mouth, but he'd been so fucking  _angry_. He hated the way she needled him and prodded at him and all of it without ever bloody realising... But even that couldn't have been bad enough for the gods he didn't believe in to punish him like this.  
  
The problem was, he wasn't an idiot. Sansa's looking glass didn't lie and Jaime's presence had confirmed he wasn't dreaming or drunk, and that could only mean one thing. He had always been a pragmatic man, and he knew clear enough that he must try to act like Sansa until this curse could be lifted. Generally Sandor had little interest in the day-to-day lives of women, but he knew enough to know that a woman's reputation was more fragile than a man's; he had been by Sansa's side long enough to see how hard she had worked for hers. It was on his shoulders not to ruin her.  
  
There had been a moment, briefly, as Sansa's maids had slipped her gown over his head that the feel of the silk on his newly smooth, soft skin had felt… nice… in the most foreign of ways. Cool, like water, like a caress. He snorted at himself. Feeling as though he should get some benefit at least, he let his hands run down his flat, feminine belly, feeling the cool smoothness of the fabric and the shape of Sansa’s body beneath too-small hands. Then he realised where his hands were headed if he carried on, and stopped abruptly.  
  
But when the maids went to pin up his hair, he spoke before he could properly think on it.  
  
"No, leave it down."  
  
"My lady?" The girls looked taken aback by the sharpness of his tone.  
  
Sandor struggled with himself for a moment. "I will wear it down today," he said as gently as he could manage, and though the girls still looked vaguely consternated, they obeyed without question. Once they were gone, Sandor spent some minutes simply staring at his reflection, before reaching up and running his fingers through Sansa's soft auburn tresses, feeling utterly ridiculous but somehow unable to stop himself.  _Even silkier than the gown,_  he thought absurdly, before shaking himself and rising to face the day with the same grimness he felt on the morning of a battle.  
  
*  
  
Sansa's steward was a competent if placid man, to whom Sandor had no particular dislike. He was discreet by nature and that made the morning run more smoothly, even if Sandor's taciturn responses to the seemingly endless stream of questions did cause the old man's eyebrows to rise on occasion. How in the seven kingdoms was he supposed to know about the rate of grain consumption in the winter town?  
  
But once the man had left him alone in Sansa's solar, Sandor was at a loss. What did the woman do all day? Write letters and stitch things? One of the windows looked down onto the practice yard and Sandor could hear the sounds of the men being drilled. For once in these godsforsaken northlands the sun was shining, and Sandor felt a pang to be outside with his men, feel the song of sinew and sweat, the ringing of steel. Jaime was probably leading the drill; no one would suffer for his absence except him. Without really noticing what he was doing, Sandor took up a tendril of Sansa's hair and let his fingers idly stroke the length of it.  
  
That was when he heard his own voice, strange and disembodied, rising up from the yard below.  
  
"Come on you lazy sons of whores! In a real fight you'd be lying dead in a ditch by now while some stinking Iron Born raped your mothers and sisters."  
  
Sandor shot to his feet and stormed to the window, kicking at the stupid, cloying skirts as he went, though he already knew what he would see.  _Damn her! Damn her to all seven hells._  
  
That woman infuriated him so much he could barely think straight, sometimes.  
  
*  
  
It was his teats more than anything, though. It was bad enough looking down from his own body on the low-cut necklines Sansa favoured, but from Sansa's perspective they were always in his peripheral vision, heaving disgracefully with every little breath he took. Not only that, though – now he could  _feel them_ , the brush of lace on the smooth, unblemished skin on the tops of her breasts, the friction of her corset against stiff nipples. Even his hair, which he had ordered left loose, made an almost unbearable tease against an exposed neck and collarbones. His fingers itched to reach up and touch, but strangely the impulse filled him with shame.  _She did not ask for this any more than I did_. Of the many things he had wanted from Sansa over the years, chief among them was her willingness.  
  
That was one benefit of his current state at least, he thought darkly – as a woman, no one would be able to see the constant state of arousal he was walking around in.  
  
*  
  
Given all of that, the bath seemed an insurmountable obstacle. What exactly had he done today to warrant a bath at any rate? He'd done nothing but sit on his arse all day and try not to think about his teats. And why would anyone bathe at this time of day?  
  
"Shall I pin up your hair, my lady?" one of the maids asked, coming into the room. "Or would you prefer that I wash it?"  
  
Sandor didn't know what to say. He didn't want a bath at all!  _Seven hells_.  
  
Then an idea occurred to him. "Wash it," he said curtly. "Then I will take my dinner alone in here while it dries."  
  
Yes. This way he would not have to dress up once more and parade himself at the high table down in the Great Hall. He did not think he could face sitting within talking distance of Jaime Lannister while wearing seed pearls.  
  
*  
  
He only realised the flaw in his plan when the girl started washing him. She was a small, plump little speck who had never held the least bit of interest for him before, but suddenly the sensation of her soft hands on his sensitised body was driving Sandor to distraction. Undressing had been bad enough, but he had simply fixed his gaze hard on the opposite wall and tried to imagine it was his squire removing his armour. But no one had ever washed his hair for him, not since he was a little boy, before his wet nurse had disappeared. He hadn't known it could be so... the way the girl's nails scraped lightly against his scalp felt like wonderful torment. By the time she had finished, it was all he could do to keep his breathing in check, fists clenched tight beneath the water line.  
  
"Leave," he growled impatiently. " _Now!_ "  
  
The girl bobbed a curtsey and hurried away, throwing a confused look over her shoulder before disappearing from view. Sandor lay back in the tub with a moan of frustration and defeat, and pressed his hand firmly between his legs.

 *****  
  
Sansa withdrew her hand from her breeches with a shudder and looked about her. She was certain she hadn’t scrimped in the design of these houses, which had been paid for with the proceeds from the first harvest, a reward to her servants for their loyalty through the end of a hard winter… there simply  _had_  to be... ah, yes, over on the far wall. It wasn't a true looking glass – it wasn't made of glass at all, which was why she hadn’t noticed it at first – but the beaten copper was sufficiently smooth so that once she had wiped it clear of condensation she could see herself well enough.  
  
Stripping off her tunic, Sansa stood for a moment and admired her torso. Sandor was tall and broad, the strongest man she had ever seen, but she had never before truly appreciated how well he was put together. Every muscle stood out in relief like a carving, and she could not resist tracing the line down the middle of her chest and belly with her fingers, hard flesh and coarse black hair so different to her own body. She watched transfixed as she brought her hand back up along her side, following the queer groove that led from low-slung waistline to hipbone, and the hard ridges of muscle above that, stretched taught over a broad rib cage.  
  
Sandor was... impressive, and quite beautiful in a truly masculine way.  _I never knew_. Of course, his looks no longer repulsed her as they once had – she might even be moved to say that she found his face quite dear to her, at least when he was in an amicable mood. But that he could be so... enticing... had simply never crossed her mind.  
  
Suddenly, the urge to touch herself again  _down there_  intensified and she pushed her breeches and smallclothes down with shaking hands, kicking them off along with her boots in one big pile. Her engorged netherparts caught on the waistband as she did so, springing back against her belly with a fleshy slap that was quite absurd, and Sansa couldn't help but laugh to herself as she examined it further.  
  
She had no basis for comparison other than Tyrion, whom she would rather forget, but the item in question certainly appeared to be in proportion with the rest of Sandor's body, about the length of one of her over-large hands and thick enough to give Sansa pause when she considered that it was supposed to fit inside a woman. At that thought it twitched, seemingly of its own accord. Curiously, Sansa poked it, displacing it to one side briefly before it to sprang back to attention once more.  _Ridiculous thing_.  
  
The head of her manhood seemed to be sheathed in a fold of skin, partially shrouding a smooth, rounded head that was flushed deep with arousal, clear fluid starting to seep from the small slit in the centre. Carefully, she touched the pad of her index finger to it, spreading it around a little as she would her own slickness, and groaned. It felt strange and wonderful, and she knew immediately she wanted more. Curling her fingers around her length, she gently pulled back the sheath to reveal the head in full. Fascinated by the small ridge that seemed to keep the sheath at bay, she ran her thumb around it, finding one especially sensitive point where the sheath seemed to attach to the head. She rubbed over it again, then slowly stroked up and down her length.  
  
Gods, this felt nothing like the intimate touches she administered to her own body, and yet the building need for release was so familiar. Her hard manhood felt all at odds, a bar of heat in her hand and yet the skin soft and smooth as summer silk.  _As contradictory as the man himself,_  she decided.  
  
Looking back up at the mirrored copper, Sansa took in the sight she was presented with – Sandor standing with his strong thighs slightly parted, his arousal appearing and disappearing through his fist as his muscles bunched with every stroke. He even had muscles on the backs of his arms, a stark dimple in the hard flesh appearing every time she straightened out her arm on the downstroke. Gods, it was like gazing at a statue of the Warrior, only she had control of it! The thought was powerful and dizzying, and she pumped herself more firmly, glorying in the hard rush of arousal, the beads of sweat breaking out on her skin, the quivering of tense abdominals and the veins that stood out in her thick forearm.   
  
"Seven save me," she gasped in complete abandon as everything seemed to tighten up. She moaned, eyes closed, caught somewhere between agony and bliss, before sweet release slammed into her, her manhood pulsing with her climax.  
  
As she tried to get her breath back, she realised her hand was covered in sticky fluid, as was the mirror. She wrinkled up her nose in distaste at the way it clung to her fingers.  _This must be the seed men are so proud of producing,_  she realised. On the mirror, it seemed to have landed in three long stripes. As she scooped up her tunic to wipe the copper clean, she decided she must watch more carefully next time, to see how it had happened.   
  
Sated, her nethers had deflated once more and lay soft against her right thigh. Taking one last deep breath, body humming with contentment, Sansa walked through to the large adjoining chamber where the baths were and slipped into the hot water. Sitting on the ledge that ran around the outside, she tilted her head back, closed her eyes and sighed.  
  
*  
  
In his bath tub, Sandor growled in frustration. He had never had much use in bed for anything but a woman's cunt, and all the folds and layers of skin confounded him now that he sought to use them to give himself pleasure. Occasionally the women he’d fucked had rubbed at themselves and seemed to enjoy it, but mostly he’d slept with whores who wanted nothing more than his coin and his prompt absence.

He had tried, tentatively, to explore what was down there with his fingers, but had found himself to be so sensitive that his clumsy prodding actually ended up  _hurting_. He didn't dare go anywhere near Sansa's cunt, having no idea what a maidenhead should look like much less feel like. The thought of returning her body to her without her maidenhead intact filled him with a strange kind of dread. In the end he had settled for rubbing very gently with the flat of one hand, while fondling a breast with the other. That had felt good for a while and, getting adventurous, he had starting rubbing faster and in circles. That felt better, but... it didn't seem to go anywhere.  
  
A cock was simple – you stroked it until you came. Sansa's body was an utter mystery, and as time went on with no familiar surging, frustration mounted until Sandor felt ready to hit something. His slender arm was burning with fatigue and even touching his breasts had stopped sending those little sparks of fire down to his cunt some time ago.  
  
In the end, exasperated beyond measure, Sandor gave up and got out of the bath. He sat sullenly eating his dinner by the fire, waiting for his mane of hair to dry, mind going in circles over the unfathomable turn the last day had taken.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sadly still unbeta'd, but here is the next part anyway. Concrit is welcome as ever! Enjoy :)

**4**  
  
Sansa awoke to a pounding at the door. A quick assessment under the bedclothes told her she was still in Sandor's body (and that her member was hard... she filed that away for later), and so it was Sandor's door that was currently weathering the battering from without. It was still barely light outside, and Sansa had spent a good portion of the night drinking and japing with Jaime as he tried to show her how to sit, walk, drink and eat more like a man. Sandor's body could withstand quite an incredible amount of alcohol, but still Sansa felt the banging was really not appreciated.  
  
For once, she could do something about that feeling.  
  
Drawing in a deep breath, she roared, " _What in all the seven buggering hells do you want?_ "  
  
The banging stopped. "Err..." squeaked a shrill little voice. It was Gethyn, Sandor's squire. Sansa quite liked the boy, and felt bad for shouting at him.  
  
"Oh. Come in, Gethyn," she called, smiling at him reassuringly as the door inched open. It did not seem to lessen the boy's look of cringing terror. Sansa supposed that the expression on Sandor's face might well be construed in a different manner than the one intended. "You wanted something?" she prompted, when he seemed to just stand there, one hand on the door latch. "Out with it boy!" she added, with more of a bite.  
  
That seemed, perversely, to comfort the boy, and he snapped into action. "Lady Stark sent for you," he said, scuttling over to one of Sandor's chests and pulling out a fresh tunic and breeches. "Said you was to come immediately."  
  
Sansa sat up. "Am I... is  _she_  in trouble?"  
  
"Don't think so, but Eda said she's been in a frightful bad temper since last night."  
  
Sansa couldn't help but smirk to herself, even as her stomach swooped in anxiety. She had not laid eyes on Sandor... on her own body... since this change had come upon them.  
  
"Better hurry then, boy," she said, the natural roughness of Sandor's voice masking her unease.  
  
*  
  
Sandor had slept badly, plagued by nightmares of finding himself on the battlefield clad in Sansa's silks, unable to lift his own longsword, and had woken early to a soft shuffling sound in his room.  
  
He was reaching to the headboard for his sword belt before he'd even opened his eyes, only to find it gone. Long, soft curls brushed his bare arms: he was still Sansa.  
  
"My lady?" the maid's voice came through the dark. "Pardons, I did not mean to wake you."  
  
"What's happened?" he barked. If Sansa-  
  
"Nothing, my lady." The maid sounded confused. "I only thought to lay out your cloths before you woke, is all."  
  
"Lay out my what?" Sandor swung his legs over the side of the bed, irritated into wakefulness. "Open the damn shutters will you."  
  
A moment later, soft pink dawn-light crept into the room, and he saw three neat little rolls of cloth by a basin of lightly steaming water, a strange contraption of buckles and fastenings that looked something like a delicate harness lay nearby. Sandor got up and went over for a better look. Picking up one of the cloths he let it unroll in his hands. He was none the wiser.   
  
Sandor looked to the maid for a hint. She looked back, uncertainty growing in her expression. Sandor wondered if the girl had ever looked him in the face before, in his own body.  
  
"I only thought... with my lady's mood yesterday..."  
  
"My mood," he said flatly. The maid started to fidget. Sandor waited, watching her expressionlessly as anxiety bloomed. It was a method he had honed well as the Hound – most people could not stand an uncomfortable silence.  
  
Before too long, the girl reached her breaking point. "Your  _moon blood_ , my lady?" she prompted with a loud whisper that might have been comical were it not for the words that had been spoken.  
  
"My  _what_?"

*****  
  
That was when he sent for Sansa.  
  
She arrived surprisingly promptly, given the hour – she had almost certainly been abed, and he would admit that the thought of having her dragged from it was more than a little satisfying.  
  
He should have prepared himself better. That was his first thought upon laying eyes on his own body. As Sansa entered the room they shared a long, disorientated look, and Sandor saw his own face from the outside for the first time in his life.  
  
He knew he was disfigured. Of course he knew that. But with no mirror in his room, and Sansa and Jaime to look him in the face without wincing or turning away, he had almost been able to forget just how  _ugly_  he truly was. Blackened, dead skin like leather, rivened with cracks and pits, red scar tissue slick and shiny beneath. That hint of bone on his jaw. The missing ear.   
  
 _How can they stand it?_  He felt bile rising in his throat as he stared up at himself.  
  
Sansa frowned, and took an uncertain step closer. "Sandor? Are you... are you all right?"   
  
She towered over him. He had never quite appreciated just how big he appeared from Sansa's perspective, a huge, hulking presence with the face of a demon.   
  
How he had once enjoyed using that fact to intimidate her; torment her. Surely he must have given her nightmares. He must give her nightmares still.  
  
"Sandor?"  
  
He felt hot and nauseous, and he couldn't breathe.  
  
The world went black.  
  
*  
  
"In all my years, for all the things I've seen, I have never once fainted."  
  
Sandor grunted in discomfort and rubbed his eyes. His ears were ringing and he felt cold all over, but after a moment his brain caught up with the words it had just heard. His eyes sprang open.  
  
"I  _fainted_?"   
  
"You shame me," Sansa said, almost gleeful from her seat at his bedside. "I'm only glad there was no one here to see it but me."  
  
Sandor groaned and tried to sit up, only making it into a half-slumped position as his head swam. It was still hard to look at her wearing his own hideous face. "Are you  _enjoying_  this?"  
  
"I take it you aren't,  _little bird_."  
  
Sandor glowered at her in outrage. How dare she-   
  
"Don't call me that," he warned. Sansa looked unworried. All of a sudden he realised he was on the bed. The thought of Sansa carrying him here in her arms was... he did not know what, but it perturbed him. The silence stretched as they stared at one another again. He was the first to look away.   
  
"Are you all right now?" Sansa asked more seriously.  
  
"I'm fine," Sandor snapped. Uncomfortable, he got up, and found to his displeasure that even with Sansa sitting he barely held any height over her – nowhere near as much as he was accustomed.  
  
"I am glad to hear it. Now perhaps you can tell me why you summoned me here at this horribly early hour?"  
  
Oh yes,  _that_. He stalked over to the wash basin, no longer steaming, and picked up one of the cloths, brandishing it at Sansa.  
  
"What in the seven hells is this?" he demanded.  
  
Sansa stared at it for a moment, before blushing like a sunset. "Oh, gods," she said faintly. "What is that doing here?"  
  
"Your maid said she thought I might need it," Sandor said, trying to make his high, feminine voice sound as threatening as possible.  
  
"Why?" Sansa asked, sounding bewildered. "I'm not, I mean, I don't..." If possible her blush deepened. It did not make her any more comely. "I – you – shouldn't need those yet, not for another week."  
  
Sandor felt himself relax, just a little. "Then why would that maid of yours put them out?"  
  
"She's called Eda," Sansa said indignantly. "And I have no idea. What on earth have you said to her?"  
  
"Nothing!" Sandor replied, irritated. He had made a concerted effort to say as little as possible yesterday – this was in no way his fault. And yet Sansa was giving him a dubious look. He threw up his arms furiously. "Why in all the seven kingdoms would I speak to your maid about moon blood?"  
  
Sansa looked aghast, shifting uncomfortably in her chair while Sandor paced about her chambers in a haze of angry energy.  
  
"I imagine you did not need to mention it, if this is how you have been acting," she said after a moment.  
  
"What does that have to do with anything?"  
  
"Nevermind," Sansa said smoothly, regaining her composure. "You need not worry, at any rate – you will only need the cloths if we are still in this state in a week's time."  
  
And that was something else they really needed to talk about. He walked to the window so that he would not have to look at his own horrifying visage any longer.  
  
"How did this happen?" he asked. There was a moment of silence. Sandor resisted the urge to turn around – there was nothing there he wanted to see.  
  
"Jaime explained to you about the Mother's Gift?"  
  
"He did."  
  
Another pause. "Then you know as much as I do."  
  
She was lying to him, he was certain. Despite the harsh, rasping tones she was speaking with, some things about her voice hadn't changed – intonation, hesitation. He would unpick that later, however – the next question was more important right now.  
  
"How do we undo it?"  
  
"I don't know," she replied simply. "But Sandor,  _please_ , in the meantime, please  _try_  to be polite to people or they will all think I've gone mad. My reputation..." she trailed off, but he knew full well what she was talking about.  
  
Sandor grunted. "Better that I stay in your rooms then, little bird."  
  
"I wish that you could," she said, sounding genuine enough that Sandor felt mildly affronted. "Only, it's Smithsday, and I always spend the morning doing needlework with the castle women. It's a really important appointment," she hurried to add as the glower settled across Sandor's face. "It's the best way for me to hear a lot of the happenings below stairs and amongst the other castle folk. I really do need you to go. I'm sorry."  
  
Sandor ground his teeth. He had always defined himself by his loyalty. When he had pledged himself to Sansa's service, he had sworn to obey her commands – the only oath he had ever taken. He had killed in her name, and taken injuries defending her. But he had never envisaged the possibility of _sewing_  for her.  
  
"If I do this," he said eventually, "you're coming with me."  
  
He could practically feel Sansa's smile at his back. "Oh I wouldn't miss it for the world."


	5. Chapter 5

**5**  
  
Sansa waited outside her chambers while Eda helped Sandor dress. It seemed to take forever, and she was starting to get a little impatient, not least because her stomach felt as though it were gnawing on itself from the inside out. When he did finally appear, he was wearing a blue gown with a modest neckline that Sansa did not generally favour. He wore his hair only half-pinned, brushed back from his face but allowed to flow loose down his back. Sansa thought the overall effect was such that it made her look very young for her eighteen years; an impression she had always tried to avoid giving.  
  
She realised she was staring just at the same moment she realised Sandor had noticed it.  
  
"Admiring the view?" he asked in a caustic undertone as he swept by. For a moment, Sansa did not quite know where she was. Ever since walking into her own chambers this morning to see Sandor wearing her body like an ill-fitting gown, she had been repeatedly struck by disorientation and vertigo, suddenly finding her own feet too far away, her limbs too long, her voice too deep. Sandor had clearly felt it as well, sinking into a dead faint at the sight of her like some lady at court with her laces too tight. Instinct had taken over and Sansa had reached for him, catching him in her arms before he hit the ground, astounded at how easy it was to scoop his body up and carry him to the bed. In her arms, he had seemed so small and fragile, and she had wondered if that was how she always appeared to Sandor. It was a strange thought; not entirely a happy one.   
  
Sandor had clearly fully recovered, however, marching down the corridor as though off to war, and Sansa shook herself out of it and followed in his wake. He was obviously not at all happy about their situation, and though Sansa felt a pang of guilt at his displeasure, whenever she remembered what he had said to her two nights past she could not help but think that he deserved every moment of this.   
  
She caught up with Sandor swiftly, walking just behind his right shoulder as he always did to her when he was on guard duty. "You look pretty today, my lady," she murmured, feeling as mischievous as Arya.  
  
Sandor threw her a disgusted look over his shoulder that made him look, for the briefest of moments, just like the lost little sister Sansa had been thinking of. She had never realised she had anything of her father’s looks within her. It made her want to smile, even as her chest tightened.  
  
It was early still as they made their way to the Great Hall to break their fast. The tables below the salt were well occupied by the men of the guard, stableboys, grooms, the kennelmaster and his apprentices... the dais was entirely empty, however. As the captain of Sansa's guard, Sandor had a seat on the high table and Sansa took it now, making her requests of the nearest serving girl immediately. After a moment's hesitations, Sandor took the grand, carved seat at the centre of the high table, looking warily about the hall from under his lashes as though surveying it for enemy threat.  
  
Another servant approached. “Bread and bacon,” Sandor told him curtly, "two of those boiled goose eggs, and a mug of dark beer."  
  
Sansa cleared her throat pointedly. Sandor glared at her. Sansa returned his gaze steadily.  
  
" _Please_ ," Sandor ground out, turning back to the servant and delivering a smile that looked more of a grimace. The servant bowed and hurried away with alacrity.  
  
Sansa sighed. "You said you would try," she reminded him quietly.  
  
She was saved from hearing his response by Jaime's arrival. "What a pleasant sight to see you gracing the breakfast table so early, my lady," he said, seating himself by Sandor.  
  
"Fuck you up the arse with an iron poker, Jaime," Sandor said off-handedly. Sansa gasped in horror but Jaime merely raised one golden eyebrow.  
  
"Ah, I see," he said, looking between the two of them. "This does present an interesting situation."  
  
But interesting didn't even begin to cover it when the food arrived. Jaime took one look at the way each of them was holding their knife and near choked on his own suppressed laughter. Self-consciously, Sansa changed her grip to match Jaime's, remembering the half-drunken lessons he had given her the night before, and looking about the hall at the other men, tried to mimic the same economy of motion as they shovelled their food into their mouths. It helped that she was terribly hungry this morning.  
  
Sandor, on the other hand, sat carefully cutting his food into small, ragged pieces before attempting to balance a sliver of egg and a strip of bacon on a square of bread long enough to get it all into his mouth, muttering occasionally under his breath.  
  
"Don't talk with your mouth full," Sansa said around a mouthful of food, feeling delightfully wicked at disobeying her own rules. Arya would be so proud of her.  
  
"Ladies don't slurp, they sip," Jaime whispered when Sandor reached for his beer, sounding terrifyingly like Septa Mordane.  
  
"Bloody hells," Sandor hissed back, "why not just starve myself and have done?"  
  
"Well, I'm sure your corset would breathe a sigh of relief," Jaime replied pertly.  
  
Sansa, watching in amusement, saw the way Sandor's mug seemed to stutter on its way to his mouth at that. For a moment he looked... embarrassed? No, not quite, but uncomfortable, certainly. Did he not like Jaime referring to his corset for some reason? He  _was_  eating rather a lot. Come to think of it, though, Sansa was not entirely enamoured of the turn the conversation had taken.  
  
"Jaime," she chided quietly, "that is hardly proper."  
  
Jaime looked up and met her eyes, looking as chastened as he ever got. "Pardons, my lady. For a moment I forgot my company. This is... more than a little disconcerting."  
  
"For all of us, I am sure," Sansa replied, but her eyes were on Sandor. He had put down his mug and was fiddling with the lace trim of his already-high neckline, tugging at it ineffectually, and it occurred to her with a sudden shock of warm affection that he was trying to protect her modesty.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, everyone. I went away for a fortnight and ended up leaving my laptop in a foreign airport, and I never got it back, and then my mum went into hospital. So, busy! But thanks for your patience :) Unbeta'd, but concrit is welcome.

**6**  
  
Sansa walked behind Sandor again as they made their way to the morning room – a large room on the first floor of the keep in which the castle women had always met to sew, weave and gossip together. Sansa remembered her mother and Septa Mordane spending their Smithsday mornings thus when she was a girl, and how grown up she had felt the first time she had been allowed to join in. In those days, her mother and the other noble women had taken along their own embroidery as befit their status, while the maids, kitchen girls and other women folk worked on various repairs. Nowadays, Sansa did not have any noble female companions except Brienne, who was less inclined to sew even than Arya had been, and was currently away at any rate. In the early days of her return to her ancestral home, there had been far too much to do to indulge in fanciful hobbies, and in a castle the size of Winterfell there was always something useful that needed doing, and so with one thing and another, despite what Sandor probably thought, Sansa hadn't done any fine needlework since her enforced stay in the Vale.  
  
They walked in silence together, Sansa still digesting what she had seen in the Great Hall and what it could mean, until they were joined by an old woman in her fifties, with refined features and dark grey hair.  
  
"My lady," she greeted Sandor, "you look beautiful this morning, if I may say."  
  
Roused from his own thoughts, Sandor looked at her then briefly back at Sansa.   
  
"...thank you," he said eventually. For a moment, Sansa assumed his hesitation to be down to the fact that he did not know the woman's name. Then it occurred to Sansa to wonder if he was simply inexperienced at responding to compliments. It was the third one he had received in the last hour or so, and none of them had been taken particularly well.  
  
The woman glanced back at Sansa then, inclining her head in acknowledgement, and Sansa had to stop herself from offering a greeting – this was Annes, her personal seamstress. She had come north with Stannis's troops, seamstress to the late Queen Selyse, and had been left abandoned here when the army scattered during the first devastating attack from the Others. Sansa had taken many such women and children inside her walls – those who had not fled further south – Annes included. They had become good friends in the intervening years.  
  
She watched as the old woman leant a little closer to Sandor and spoke to him in a low voice. Suddenly it occurred to her how embarrassing this could become. Annes's husband had fought for Stannis at the Battle of the Blackwater, and had been returned to her badly burned. The man had later died of his injuries, but ever since she had first laid eyes on Sandor, Annes had taken a shine to him. When they were alone, she often liked to jape with Sansa about what a fine young man Sandor was, so tall and broad, so dedicated to his lady's protection... Sansa always laughed along with good grace, comfortable with Sandor's position in her life, and knowing that he was too.  
  
But now, if Annes were to speak so to Sandor, mistaking him for Sansa... gods, how mortifying! He would think her in the habit of surveying her men like livestock, or worse, that she and Annes were making sport of him.  
  
As Annes finished whatever it was she was saying, Sansa watched Sandor with trepidation.  
  
*  
  
Despite what Sansa thought, Sandor knew the names of every single servant, retainer and noble working or living in the castle. As captain of the guard and Sansa's sworn shield, he made it his business. He  _had_  known Sansa's maid's name, just as he knew the woman who had now fallen into step beside him – Annes, Sansa's seamstress, and one of the few women he had known in his life ever to look him full in the face without recoiling.  
  
That did not mean he had ever had cause to speak with her, however, and the conversation did not begin as smoothly as it would have were he really Sansa, and not just parading around as her. He was simply not used to people being so... warm towards him.  
  
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Annes turn and acknowledge Sansa, the way only she ever really did, before the old woman leant a little closer to him and murmured,  
  
"Is your sworn shield to accompany you to the morning room today, my lady?"  
  
"Yes," Sandor replied, keeping his voice neutral as a spike of suspicion rose in him. Though Annes had never seemed to object to him before, it would not be the first time this had happened. Not even close. "Will that be a problem?"  
  
Annes looked taken aback. "Of course not," she replied conspiratorially. "I only wondered at it, today being so far from my nameday as it is."  
  
Sandor frowned, attempting to parse the old woman's meaning. Was this some kind of feminine code, the type borne of long association between a servant and her mistress? What in the hells did she mean about her nameday? Thankfully, a response did not appear to be required, and before much longer they arrived at the morning room. 

 *****  
  
Sandor kept himself from swearing out loud for the third time, and felt a moment of dour pride in his forbearance. Sewing was a bloody torture of pricked fingers and jammed nails, made all the worse for knowing that with his own calloused hands he would barely feel a thing. In contrast, Sansa's delicate fingers seemed to well blood at every opportunity. The only times Sandor had ever had to thread a needle were the times he had had to sew himself up, usually in some squalid camp when a maester could not be got. It was a process uniquely linked with pain, fatigue, and the cold sweat of anticipation for the dreadful burning of boiled wine. Those times were distant memories now, however, and seemed to pale in comparison next to the task at hand.  
  
He had been given a bed curtain whose lining had ripped. He presumed he was expected to fix it.  
  
At least having it in his lap had stopped Sansa from glaring at him from across the room – apparently she had taken objection to the way he had sat down at the sewing circle, mouthing at him to put his knees together. Though Sandor had tried it was not a natural or comfortable position for him, and besides, what else did women wear skirts for if not to protect their modesty?  
  
He saw her watching him as he shifted his weight to change positions once more, mouthing something about posture, but he bent over the curtain anyway, ignoring her.  _The better to hide these hideous stitches._  He had seen Sansa's needlework – might have somehow come into possession of a handkerchief she had embroidered – might even sometimes take it out and look at it – and like everything else about her, it was pretty and refined. His own effort was far from.  
  
The room was quiet and industrious, the women murmuring quietly to each other when they needed new thread or a skein of yarn. Sansa had insisted they must come here to hear the castle gossip, but how could that be when no one spoke? Was he supposed to begin the conversation? Occasionally, one of the women would glance furtively over at Sansa, until Sansa gazed back, and then they would return to their work with renewed vigour. Sandor was used to such staring – had been subjected to it near all his life. Sansa's expression betrayed none of the annoyance Sandor felt from seeing it – an emotion that was not lessened by watching it happen from the outside – merely looking bemused by the strange behaviour.  
  
 _Of course,_  he thought,  _she'll be used to people looking at her. Just with happier thoughts in their hearts._  
  
Time seemed to stretch in the confines of the quiet room. He racked his brains for something to begin the sharing of female confidences Sansa seemed to require, but nothing suitable presented itself.  
  
He hissed as he pricked his finger again, sucking brutally on the slender digit. Several pairs of eyes rose from their work to rest on him.  
  
"Are you well, my lady?" Annes murmured at his side.  
  
"I'm fine," Sandor muttered, then made himself add, "thank you, Annes. It's just a little prick."  
  
A kitchen maid snorted inelegantly, and another tittered behind her hand. He stared at them a moment in incomprehension. When he glanced up at Sansa, her good cheek was a little flushed. She cleared her throat, chainmail clinking as she shifted position, and the room was effectively silenced once more.  
  
Then his mind rearranged the situation, and replayed those words to a guardhouse full of fighting men.

Well, now.  
  
"Would you like my finger guard?" the old woman asked, holding up a small fired-clay tube that she wore slipped over the tip of one forefinger.  
  
"That is... very kind, but there's no need." Sandor replied, eyes still on Sansa. "But I will let you know if I feel a bigger prick."  
  
The tittering came again, more intense than before. Sansa wore a fixed expression, though now she wouldn't meet is eye. He could see a muscle jumping in her jaw. It made her look quite menacing, and that thought quelled his mirth for a moment before a distraction arrived in the form of Jaime Lannister. The room went quiet again as the knight stepped in, ostentatiously excusing his presence to Sandor and the other ladies assembled, and requested that Sansa's sworn shield be spared for a little while. Sandor frowned and was about to rise when Sansa shot him a look and shook her head minutely. Sandor sat back down and Sansa went with Jaime.  
  
This was bloody ridiculous! It was all wrong. Something of note had clearly arisen and Sandor was stuck in here making his stupidly soft little fingers sore and bloody. He could feel his patience about to snap.  
  
And what was worse, the moment Sansa had left the room it was as though everyone gathered there had breathed a collective sigh of relief. He had always suspected such a reaction was commonplace, but he had never had to stick around to see it before.  
  
Hynna, on his other side, leaned over and gently laid her hand across Sandor's. "You will crease the fabric, my lady," she said gently, and Sandor realised he had the curtain clenched tight in his fists.  
  
Annes made a sort of clucking noise. It sounded sympathetic. "Would you like some mayflower tea to ease your pains, my lady?"  
  
They were all being so fucking  _nice_  to him, when it was clear they couldn't stand his presence in the room. No one would speak to him like that if they knew who he truly was. No one ever did, except Sansa. Already conversations were beginning on the far side of the sewing circle now that Sansa was gone.   
  
"My pains?" he asked tightly.  
  
"Is it not...?" Annes trailed off uncertainly. "Forgive me, I thought with your... disposition today..."  
  
Realisation dawned. "I am  _not_  having my thrice-damned  _moon blood_ ," Sandor said loudly.  
  
Annes and Hynna raised their hands to their mouths in unison, but instead of the shocked silence he expected, he quickly realised they were laughing.  
  
"Forgive me, Lady Sansa," Annes said brightly. "Perhaps you have just been working too hard recently."  
  
He watched the woman a moment, waiting for the mocking to become apparent, but detected no ill feeling.  _Just the same warmth Sansa receives everywhere she goes._  Sandor forced himself to relax.   
  
"Aye, if you call sitting on my ar– sitting down all day working."  
  
"It is the kind of work not many here could do even a small part of," Hynna said gently. Sandor recalled that she had been a novice septa before the war, but now kept watch over Winterfell's library, such as it was since the fire.  
  
"Though far less pleasing to the eye," one of the giggling kitchen maids from earlier chipped in. "Lady Stark's work is the most important of all, no doubt, but with no offence to my lady I'd far rather watch Ser Jaime... working... in the training yard."  
  
"Speak for yourself," Annes replied, as Sandor barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes at the way women continued to fawn over Jaime, even one-handed as he now was. "I'd rather watch Sandor Clegane any day of the week."  
  
Sandor froze as his brain tried and failed to process the meaning of the words. That was the only explanation for why he didn't fall off his chair.

“Annes!” Hynna gasped in a tone of scandalised delight. “You should not speak so about our lady’s sworn shield.” Her eyes darted between Annes and Sandor, attempting to gauge the reaction of the one seated between them.

Sandor had no words. None that he could utter from these soft lips, at any rate. 

“Oh it’s nothing Lady Sansa hasn’t heard before,” Annes said dismissively. “I am quite the admirer of Sandor Clegane.”

“Shame on you, you’re old enough to be his mother,” Tess, the giggling kitchen girl, said.

“It never hurt anyone to look,” Annes replied unrepentantly. “Though I admit, the way my eyesight is going, I certainly would not object to a closer inspection.”

The room erupted into laughter, and Sandor could do nothing but stare.

“You’d have to get past his temper first,” said Nan, sitting next to Tess. “I’ve never seen such a terrifying sight as that man when he’s in a rage.”

“Lady Sansa has no fear of him,” Hynna interjected, sounding affronted. _On my behalf?_ Then she glanced at Sandor with a look that was shockingly sly. “And I confess that I find it hard to remember to be frightened of him when picturing him without his tunic.”

Laughter again, half-outraged half-indecent, and Sandor found himself reassessing Hynna, with her high cheekbones, innocent blue eyes and pale blonde hair – hardly the devotee to the Maiden he had taken her for.

“Aye, such a strong young man,” Annes added wistfully. “So tall and broad. I know most of you girls have never been married, so take it from one who knows – after dark, in the bed chamber, it’s what you can touch with your hands that counts, and I’d wager my eye-teeth that Sandor Clegane is chiselled like the Warrior himself.”

Sandor tried to consider her words in any meaningful way. He had met so few people in his life who had ever been able to look past his scarring, and women were the worst. Had he somehow missed something all these years? But no, the whores had never loved the sight of him in King’s Landing, and he had just assumed that all women would find the sight of his big, brutish body as repulsive as his face. This didn’t make any sense.

For the briefest of moments, Sandor wondered if Sansa had somehow set this up. The flash of anger was blinding before reason crept in again – how could she have? No one knew about them except Jaime.

“A bit of danger can be thrilling, I think.” The conversation continued.

“Aye, you’d want to know your man could protect you. 

“The wildlings like a man who can steal a woman away, right out of her bed.”

“You just like the idea of a man who could carry your great – ow!”

“He _is_ very strong, I suppose. Do you remember the time he lifted that fallen tree from poor Finnan’s legs? I’ve never seen the like.”

“Do you think… you know… the rest of him is in proportion?”

Beside him, Hynna looked as though she might pass out from lack of air, so hard was she laughing. Sandor’s head was spinning.

“Given the choice I’d still rather drag Ser Jaime to the mattress,” Tess was saying.

“As if you’d ever have the choice!” Nan giggled, rolling her eyes.

“It doesn’t hurt to be prepared, my girl,” Annes said, with the faintest of smirks.

“Ser Jaime is fairer to look upon, no doubt about it,” said a new voice, thoughtful and mild, “but mayhap a woman wants a man with two hands if she’s going to take the trouble to trip him into bed. So if we’re taking a vote, mine goes to Sandor Clegane.”

They all turned to stare at Eda, Sansa’s plump little chamber maid. Abruptly, Sandor remembered the feel of her nails lightly scraping his scalp as she washed his hair the night before. An involuntary shiver ran up his spine at the collision of the memory with this latest revelation. And something bloomed inside, something warm and tentative and powerful.

At least three women in this room wouldn’t throw him out of their beds. He hardly knew what to do with that knowledge, especially given that, in his current state, he was not in any position to take advantage of it.


	7. Chapter 7

As Alayne, Sansa had become used to wearing another's skin, pulling that girl’s identity around her like a protective winter cloak. At first, waking up in Sandor’s body had felt similar. All the things she could not do before, all the things she could not say, suddenly were open to her. And all the better for no Petyr Baelish.

 

Jaime had told her once how Cersei had longed to be a man. The idea had been quite shocking to Sansa, who had never really wanted to be other than she was – a highborn lady. Some things had changed of course: she no longer yearned for a husband and a marriage straight out of Old Nan’s tales; often got frustrated with the way people treated her, as though her love of silks and finery had any bearing on her mental faculties. And so when she had gone to the sept in a swirl of resentment and wine, even though she had been far enough in her cups so that she could not remember clearly what words she had spoken, Sansa still felt certain that she had not intended the result to be this.

 

The fact was, she _liked_ her fine clothes, her long hair, her pretty jewels, and being clean and sweet-smelling. She liked secret conversations and giggling over men – even if she did not participate in such things herself, she enjoyed listening. And she liked the attention of men. Oh not the pushy, arrogant sort like Lord Garwin, who had considered her response to his proposal to be a foregone conclusion. But the sort more regularly found in the north than anywhere else – strong men of honour, who protected her and offered her their compliments with sincere, straightforward manners. Men such as Jory and Ser Rodrick had once been. Such as Jaime was now. Even Sandor, in his way.

 

Ever since this morning, and her first encounter with her own body, Sansa had begun to feel that this was actually rather a lot different to changing her name and her clothes, and making up a new story for her life. She had somehow entered _Sandor’s_ life, and though yesterday had been freeing in a way she had never experienced before, it was becoming increasingly obvious that his days were rarely so enjoyable.

 

People stared at her. As lady of Winterfell, the Warden of the North and a beautiful woman, Sansa was used to being the centre of attention wherever she went. So it had taken her a little while to realise it. But people stared at her now because of her scars… Sandor’s scars…

 

“Are you all right?” Jaime asked at her side as they crossed the bailey to the armoury.

 

Sansa glanced at him, amazed all over again at the way she could now look down on him. He was watching her openly, staring her right in the face. How many others had done so over the last two days? Suddenly she could not remember. “Yes, I am fine, thank you.”

 

“Glad to hear it, because for a moment I thought my ill-tempered sparring partner had inexplicably returned.”

 

Sansa did not know what to say to that, and so changed the subject. “You said you had need of me?”

 

“Ah, yes, a raven arrived with the seal of House Aldon. I thought you would want to deal with it as soon as possible.”

 

“Maiden’s name,” Sansa sighed, stomach sinking, but took the roll of parchment without further comment. House Aldon had, until recently, been a minor house of little import in the Riverlands. But having declared early for Daenerys during the War of the Three Queens, and due to various heroic deeds in the subsequent battle with the Others, was now in the ascendency with the Dragon Queen’s favour, and Lord Krystof Aldon had been raised to the seat of Riverrun.                 

 

That that seat had not been held in trust for her uncle Edmure’s young son was reason enough for Sansa to resent Lord Aldon, but added to that, his eldest son and heir fancied himself a suitor for Sansa’s hand.

 

Lord Garwin Aldon. Last time, she had managed to dispatch him back to his father with her apologies that she simply could not entertain the thought of marriage until the restoration of Winterfell had been completed. She had hoped he would find himself a fat little wife in the meantime, some daughter of the river lords to cement the position of House Aldon.

 

Reading the lordling’s raven in the quiet gloom at the back of the armoury, it was clear that his father’s ambitions stretched farther north.

 

“Lord Garwin is coming to Winterfell once more,” she told Jaime. “We are to expect him and his party within the week.”

 

There was a moment of silence as Sansa rolled the parchment back up and slipped it into the pocket of her breeches. Sunlight streamed down from an arrow-slit window high in the wall, specks of dust winking fleetingly before passing on into the dark.

 

“And what if you are still in this… predicament when he arrives?” Jaime finally asked, giving voice to her own thoughts.

 

Sansa sat down on a bench and rubbed her face with big, calloused hands – oddly comforting, despite it all. “I don’t know,” she replied quietly. “I don’t suppose Sandor has ever mentioned the desire to be wed to the son of a great lord?”

 

Jaime laughed and sat down beside her, shoulders touching companionably – it was nice, but he would never have done so were she in her own body. Already the lines were beginning to blur.

 

“Not unless by ‘wed’ you mean ‘beat into a bloody pulp’,” he offered.

 

Sansa gave a small smile. “I’m not sure I would be entirely sorry for it.” She allowed herself another moment of sinking self-pity, before pulling her shoulders back and lifting her chin. “Sandor should be finished with his needlework by now. I had better break the news to him – the steward will need to make plans for Lord Garwin’s arrival.”

 

*

 

They talked all afternoon, and took their dinner together in Sansa’s solar, the three of them. Sandor needed instructions for what to tell the Steward. He got irritable and she got annoyed with him, but they had learned how to work together long ago, and overcame these things.

 

Still, afterwards, Sansa’s mood remained morose. That was the only explanation for how she ended up drinking in the kitchens with Jaime for the second night in a row.

 

“Sandor won’t thank you if you let his constitution soften,” Jaime had said, and Sansa had really needed very little further persuasion.

 

She was just starting to feel pleasantly hazy when a group of women appeared. She and Jaime were sitting by the large hearth with their boots off, and the women’s chatter died the moment they caught sight of the men.

 

“Forgive us, m’lords,” one of them chirped, grabbing whatever it was she had come down for, before the women retreated once more. Sansa paid them little mind – one of the luxuries of being taken for Sandor Clegane – and so did not notice that anyone had lingered. She did not notice until, half an hour later, she decided she’d had enough and slunk off to bed.

 

Her way was impeded. A pretty blond woman stood in her way on the steps.

 

“Can I help you with something, Hynna?” she asked, tired and unthinking.

 

Inexplicably, Hynna blushed, and smiled. “You know my name,” she said, sounding pleased.

 

“Of course I do,” Sansa said, confused.

 

“Well then,” said the other woman, putting her hands on her hips in a very un-Hynna-ish fashion, “What am I to call you?”

 

Sansa gaped. Hynna’s posture, her tone of voice, the appraising look she was giving – it could only mean one thing. And yet, Sansa had known her for years and never seen anything but a demure gentlewoman who had once been a novice septa.

 

“I am starting to see why you did not complete your religious training,” Sansa said, wondering if Sandor was often confronted by such… invitations. It seemed unlikely, given people’s usual reactions to him. Had Hynna been harbouring a secret passion for him all this time? Had Annes talked her into it? She wondered if it was too late to go back to the kitchens and ask Jaime to escort her to her room.

 

Hynna descended one step closer, still smiling a little shyly. “Men have always been my weakness, my lord,” she murmured.

 

“I’m… I’m not a lord,” Sansa stuttered, trying not to panic. She noticed that the laces of Hynna’s bodice had come loose at the top, displaying a smooth V of flesh. She also noticed that her cheeks were flushed and that she was weaving just a little – Sansa realised she was quite drunk.

 

Hynna stepped closer again. “No, but you are a man.” And then, with no further warning than a look of sweet concentration as Hynna bit her full lower lip, Sansa’s friend reached out and rubbed her crotch with the heel of her hand. Sansa whined, realising that her manhood had gone stiff of its own accord, and that the sensation had felt horribly good.

 

Stumbling, she backed away, but Hynna only followed, until Sansa was backed up against a wall and Hynna was pressing her breasts against Sansa’s flat, hard chest.

 

“Let’s go back to my chamber,” she was murmuring, hands running busily up and down Sansa’s sides, and finally Sansa’s wits caught up with her through the wine haze and she remembered that she now had more than one way of dealing with unsolicited advances.

 

She reached up and grasped Hynna’s shoulders, pushing her away and then holding her at arm’s length so that she could not come back closer.

 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Sansa said, trying to put some of Sandor’s menace into her tone. She towered over Hynna, and had pushed her more roughly than intended, not accustomed to the amount of strength in this body, but it was not until Hynna gasped and tried to pry Sansa’s fingers loose that she realised how hard she was gripping the woman.

 

“Gods,” she swore in shock, releasing her immediately. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”

 

Hynna had taken a step back, but she wasn’t running away screaming and Sansa supposed that that was a good thing. She was, however, peering up at Sansa with a very strange expression on her face.

 

“You’re not as I imagined,” she murmured, looking up almost searchingly.

 

“Perhaps,” Sansa replied, trying to recover herself. “But neither am I what you are looking for.” She thought about it for a moment, then for good measure added, “Girl.”

 

Hynna looked up at her a moment longer. “I know you didn’t mean to hurt me,” she said softly. “If you change your mind, the offer stands.” Then she turned and climbed the stairs once more, leaving Sansa with a sudden, unwillingly stab of jealousy.

 

Hynna barely knew Sandor! How dare she… she…

 

Sansa returned to Sandor’s bed chamber in a froth of drunken, irrational anger. She could not decide what annoyed her most, that Hynna had propositioned him, or that she had acted as though she knew anything about him. Of course, Sansa knew he truly was gentle and had more kindness in him than most others would ever suspect. But that knowledge had been _earned_ , and Hynna had just come along and acted as though it were there for anyone to see. As though everything Sansa and Sandor had been through together was worth nothing!

 

And worst of all, her stupid manhood didn’t seem to know when to be quiescent, still firm beneath her laces from Hynna’s attentions.

 

Moodily, and without really thinking it through, Sansa pulled her clothes off and collapsed diagonally across Sandor’s bed. It smelled of him – a touch of armour oil and leather, but mainly some indefinable yet familiar scent. In fact, _she_ smelled of him, given that she was him. She raised one heavily muscled arm and let it fall across her face, the soft skin on the inside of her forearm and bicep feeling nice against the bristle of her stubble. Thinking nothing of it, she reached down and grabbed her manhood in her hand, while running her lips over her own skin.

 

Hynna had wanted Sandor to… to be with her, and while she still had a little trouble imagining something the size of Sandor’s manhood actually entering a woman, the manhood itself certainly liked the pumping, thrusting motion she had seen men engaged in while rutting. Unbidden, her mind filled with images of Sandor naked, bent over a bed on which a prone Hynna lay, thrusting into her in the same fast and furious way she had observed other men do. This time, instead of jealousy, it only led to a vaguely guilty feeling. Sandor probably did not get many opportunities to let off steam, like the other fighting men in her service. He would probably quite like to lay with Hynna. She turned it over in her mind’s eye, the image of Sandor’s naked body as thrilling as it had been the day before, but with no mirror tonight she had only her imagination. Instead of Hynna, she let her drunken mind wander to a different partner, closer to home… in fact, she imagined herself.

 

Her release rushed up on her like a bolting horse, thundering through her veins with a shocking intensity. She lay on the bed, gasping and sheened with sweat, and had barely the presence of mind to pull on her smallclothes before collapsing under the covers and allowing her consciousness to spin away into the dark.

 

*

 

She jolted awake in the early morning, the sky still dark outside, suddenly and horrifyingly sober.

 

Surely she had not…?

 

But she did not… feel that way. They had been friends a long time. She knew Sandor admired her beauty in a superficial way, but he had never done anything to suggest…

 

This was all her own doing, borne of her own imagination. And now… longing? She could barely think the word.

 

“Just the wine,” she told herself, but it was unconvincing to her own ears. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~Hi readers! I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Unfortunately, this is going to be the last update for a while, as I'm about to participate in my first ever[NaNoWriMo](http://nanowrimo.org/), which will no doubt eat up my November. Then, in early December my husband and I are moving from England to the US. All this means there's unlikely to be any new fanfic from me at all until the new year. I'm sure you'll survive my absence, but forewarned is forearmed and all that! Wish me luck :)~~
> 
> ETA 19/5/2014: I have sadly conceded defeat and abandoned this story. Please don't hate me too badly! I may come back to this fandom once the new book is out, but for now my muse has moved on, so no promises. Sorry to disappoint you all, but just wanted to let you know one way or the other (I know it sucks to be left hanging).


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